Civilized Beasts
by Exilo
Summary: Len Roberts had walked through hell and survived, only to be dropped in a world of cold and nothing. He's not a warrior or a soldier, he's only human, but struggles and endures and survives. Sequel to "Mad World". R&R please.
1. Chapter 1

**(A birthday gift for Aspergian Mind, and a sequel to Mad World which was his gift last year. It seems like one fic a year is a good strategy. This will be in about five or six parts, but I still need to write the ending. Hopefully I can manage once a week.****)**

**_Chapter 1_**

Of all the things Len Roberts disliked about Lewis-B125 (and there were a lot of things to dislike about this particular Spartan-III), what he disliked most was Lewis-B125's helmet. To some, that might have seemed like a trivial detail. All Spartans wore helmets after all. Marines wore helmets, as did ODSTs. But it was considered customary to show your face when you were talking to someone outside of a combat. Marines removed their helmets, ODSTs depolarized their visors, and even the other Spartans Len had known removed their helmets when speaking to him. Those that didn't usually had the standard helmet, with the visor and something of a discernible "face." Len knew where to look when he addressed most Spartans: he was told it was respectful to look into the visor as if they were a set of eyes. But when Lewis-B125, there was no place to look. He wore the EVA model helmet, bare and without any decals, so his face was just a blank sheen of slightly reflective blue visor.

Len did not like speaking to Lewis-B125, and Lewis-B125 didn't like to talk. But for better or worse, Lewis-B125 had been assigned as Len's bodyguard, and that meant almost constant contact.

Following his capture and subsequent release from the Covenant forces those few years ago, Len had been tested and probed. The higher ups were certain that he had somehow become a sleeper agent for the Covenant. ONI probably would have liked him to be executed, just to be sure, but housed in Len's body was a brain that was too valuable to destroy. Besides, there were other things to do.

And so, for the past three years, Len had been living in exile, on a ship that endlessly tugged him along, through the recesses of space. At first, he had almost enjoyed the solitude. There were about three hundred others aboard the ship: maybe fifty other exiles who were too valuable or too sensitive to simply execute. About two hundred maintenance workers kept the ship functioning. And there were fifty Spartan-IIIs, one for each undesirable.

Lewis-B125 had made his role in Len's life very clear: those were the only words Len had ever heard him say. In the event that Len, in any way, compromised Earth or anything else of value to humanity, he would be executed with five shots to the back of the head.

So, for three years, Len sat in silence and solitude, doing his endless research. It hadn't done Len much good: the quiet of space and solitude. He shuffled from his bedroom to his laboratory and back to his bedroom, day in day out. He was rarely able to engage with the other undesirables: they had their own watchdogs and their own schedules to keep, and when he was able to see them… he usually would rather not. He didn't bother keeping mirrors in his room, it was too depressing to see how he had deteriorated: growing thin and sickly, skin pale and bone white, eyes sunken from never receiving a good night's sleep. He barely bothered to eat, hardly needing the energy to type out the notes of his findings and send them through secure servers to an ONI satellite, where they would be encrypted and sent to another ONI satellite, unencrypted, re-encrypted, sent to another ONI satellite…

He thought of suicide any number of times; maybe that was what ONI wanted. He thought of trying to punch Lewis-B125, or opening the airlock while he was inside, or just laying down to sleep and willing his body to never wake up. Sometimes he didn't bother to get out of bed. Lewis-B125 didn't seem to mind, and he was in bed the day of the attack, which had actually saved his life, because the laboratories were targeted first.

The laboratories were not near the ship's engines, but close enough that a stray few missiles, or whatever it was that the Covenant used to cripple human ships so efficiently, had struck the hull in just the right spot. The occupants of the laboratory at that time were sucked out into the vacuum of space, frozen by the cold embrace of emptiness and left to drift in the endless abyss of darkness.

The ship rocked, and Len was tossed from his bed. He struck the wall hard, a painful jolt running through him, and stunned him for a moment as the bed sheets tangled around him. He fought with them for a moment, before stumbling free and struggling to his door. He was greeted by the blank expression of Lewis-B125. No words were exchanged. In an instant, the Spartan had taken hold of Len's thin forearm and gave it a sudden yank. Len yelped as he felt the bone pulled and popped, but was already being dragged along by Lewis-B125, who was heading for the escape pods.

Almost three years of entropy, and yet Len found his body responding to his demands. He found himself running, something that he thought he could no longer do given the weakness in his legs. Lewis-B125 tearing and ripping his arm helped. The pain kept him from passing out or succumbing to the fatigue that was biting at his muscles. But when Lewis-B125 let go of him, Len tripped over his feet and tumbled to the floor.

Lewis-B125 had noticed a chubby little Grunt wandering the halls, perhaps looking for the humans he was supposed to kill. Drawing the two knives from his chest armor, Lewis-B125 continued to dash. The Grunt saw, and turned, blobs of plasma spitting out of the pistol in his hand, but he was tackled, first against the wall, and then to the ground. Both blades jabbed into his chest served to silence the Grunt's whimpers quickly. Lewis-B125 stood to retrieve his blades, but seeing something leapt back, and back down the corner that he had just come.

There was a roar, a roar like Len had heard before, and turning the corner, he gasped as he saw a Brute shuffling along. Nine feet tall, with glistening green armor and a hammer that could wreck a Warthog with a few swings, Len lay rooted to the spot until Lewis-B125 once more grasped his arm and yanked him to his feet. Len took a moment to stumble and stutter before managing to resume his run. He could hear the furious roars of the Brute behind him; the heavy stomp of its feet as it gave chase. Len whimpered and gritted his teeth, trying to force his tired and aching legs to move faster, until Lewis-B125 stopped running, and instead yanked Len to the ground. Above them, the gravity hammer swung through the air, crashing into the hallway's wall with an awful noise. Lewis-B125 was on his feet in a moment, ducking under the Brute's swinging arm and getting to the beast's blindside. He continued running, reaching the opposite end of the hallway and retrieving the blades from the Unggoy's corpse. He sheathed them, as the Brute turned and snarled, focusing on his target, and charged. Lewis-B125 peppered the Brute with shots from his pistols, until it was in range for a swing, in which time he attempted what he had done before. He attempted to duck and roll beneath the swinging arms and hammer, but the Brute had grown wise to his strategy.

Lewis-B125 ducked beneath the swing and rolled to his feet. He was met by a sudden backhand that knocked him several feet through the hallway. Rampaging and snarling, the Brute was upon him suddenly, stomping one of its feet down onto Lewis-B125's chest. How Lewis-B125 survived that, Len would never know, but Lewis-B125 screamed and shrieked as the weight came down, and the Brute simply stared, focusing on the little one beneath him, until his shields flickered, and he looked down the hallway at Len who had picked up one of Lewis-B125's discarded pistol. Len squeezed the trigger again. He had received enough training that he knew how to stand, and how to hold the pistol, and how to squeeze, not jerk, the trigger. And of course, the Brute's body filled the hallway, so it wasn't a difficult shot to make.

But the bullets were like flea bites to the Brute, who stomped down the hallway casually. A backhand knocked the pistol out of Len's grip, and its fingers found Len's throat, lifting him off the ground like a grown man would a baby.

If he wanted to, the Brute could snap his neck, but as he had been with Lewis-B125, there were precious moments where he simply examined his quarry, as if he were pondering something. He growled, annoyed, and Len thought for sure he would die. Indeed, the Brute gently applied pressure to his throat, and his head tilted up, as he gasped for the last precious breath. His gaze happened to play over the Brute's shoulder and down the hallway, to Lewis-B125, who was limping and whimpering down the hallway, trying to escape the behemoth. A moment later, Len had passed out.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

Len woke.

It was a shocking sense, when his eyes opened. He had been sleeping without dreams, and truthfully whatever part of him that could think in that dark abyss, thought he was dead. He was in agonizing pain, which he welcomed, because it confirmed he was alive, but that begged the question, where was he?

His head was resting on his on something soft. He pushed off it, and massaged the ground with his fingers and hands, finding it to be some sort of bedding. He was on a bed in fact, and in a room of dark metal with lights overhead that barely illuminated anything. He was nude, and looked over his body to see if he had been hurt. His arm was in some sort of wrapping. Poking his arm, he nearly screamed from the pain that surged through him. The sling seemed to be dulling the pain, so he resolved to leave it on for the time being. He scooted over the bed (which could have sat him and five or so of his clones), and reached the ground, which was cold and painful on his bare feet. He must have been in someone's quarters, judging by the bed and desk, and an open door that probably lead to a bathroom, and the front door that was closed.

"Lewis?" he asked, calling out. "Lewis?"

No response. He walked to the door, expecting it to slide open as automatic doors always did, but it remained shut. Len touched it softly, and then tried to pry it open with what strength he could muster in his thin arms. When that didn't work, he pounded gently, trying to call for someone to open it. The door did open before him, and his vision shifted to a stretch of brown fur.

"No," Len gasped, letting out a scream and turning, running deeper into the room. "No!"

The Brute shuffled inside, passively looking to Len and then turned back to the door. A thick finger typed a code in to the side panel, and the door sealed shut. The Brute was out of his armor: his long brown fur covering some of his body, his groin and upper legs covered by a pair of black pants, perhaps the Covenant's idea of civilian dress. Len had taken to cowering in the corner, whimpering and crying. The Brute barely seemed to notice him. In fact, it simply shuffled into the bathroom, and Len heard water running. A time later, the Brute came out, drying his facial fur with a towel and throwing it carelessly to the ground. He approached Len, who hadn't moved, and reached a hand out. He lifted Len carefully, though his strong grip on Len's thin arm made Len scream until he was set back down. The Brute pointed to the bathroom, and when Len didn't move, patted his back.

"What do you want?" Len asked. "What do you want?" he screamed.

The Brute guided him to the bathroom, which, truthfully greatly resembled a human one. There was a fixture he would assume was a toilet, a sink, and a shower, though it lacked curtains or frosted glass. The shower was what concerned the Brute, as it ran hot water. Gripping Len, he forced him under the water.

A part of Len honestly thought that it might be acid that came from the shower's head. Or fire water. Or a strong base that would melt Len's skin off his bones. It was a little hot, but just water.

And suddenly, Len realized the Brute was no longer around. Its hand had left his arm, and he was alone with the shower washing over him, the warm, oddly pleasant water… when was the last time he had had a shower? A horrible life, endless days and sleepless nights, he never bothered with personal grooming. And now what could he look forward to? What would the Brute do with him? What horrors… before the fear and loathing and hatred set in, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the rush of warm water over his aching skin. He washed himself with lathers and creams that smelled pleasant and didn't burn his skin too bad. He washed himself, and when he actually felt vaguely clean, he just stood under the hot water, until the fear and disgust grew too intense and he left the shower, dripping wet. He left the room he was in, water trailing him, and headed into the main quarters.

The Brute had been sitting at its desk, and hearing Len, turned to him. He snarled and stomped over, and Len began to back away, but slipped on the wet ground and landed hard on his back and rump. The Brute loomed over him, staring, mouth twitching. Reaching down, he picked Len up, and stood him up, then positioned him against one of the walls in the bathroom. The Brute pressed a button, and from some unseen vent a breath of hot hair blew forward. Len was almost pushed back again but the Brute held him, as the hot air continued to wash over him, quickly drying his skin. The Brute turned him around, so his back would dry as well, before bringing him back out and sitting him on the bed.

"What do you want?" Len demanded. Still, the Brute ignored him. He walked over to his desk and picked up a can, that was soon dropped into Len's lap. "Rations? Did you steal these from the ship? Brute, what happened? Why am I here?"

The Brute sighed and rubbed his head, clearly getting annoyed at Len's constant voice. He walked over, and lowered to one knee, though was still massive compared to Len's small form. "Yeah… I recognize you. Bridge, a few years ago. What of-" A finger of the Brute touched Len's lips, silencing him. The Brute used the same finger to point to the ration.

"So you're fattening me up?" Len asked, looking down at the ration, to which the Brute once more sighed, and this time made a "Shhhh" gesture with his own mouth.

Len stood from the bed, and walked about the room. The Brute, snorting gently, watched him as he moved about, growling and clearly agitated. "So, you're not going to kill me, I gather that. Even if your first thought was to fatten me up, you would have brained me by now, isn't that right? You want something from me, don't you? Well Brute, jokes on you, I don't know a goddamn thing." Len turned to the Brute, feeling a bit smug. "I don't know the coordinates of Earth or any of our colonies or anything you might like. You know my specialty? Biology, xenology. I could give you a physical if you wanted, but that's it." Len stared at the Brute. "Do you recognize me? I mean, I recognize you: brown fur, green eyes, war hammer, bad people skills. But, do you recognize me from before? Is that why you grabbed me? Was… did you attack the ship just to get me? Cause I don't have my bible anymore. There is nothing I have for you, you fucking animal. Now say something!"

The Brute could have stomped over and torn Len's head off, and it would have been worth it, seeing the Brute's level of frustration growing. It somehow felt good, to take a bit of revenge on the beast that had caused him such trouble and pain. The Brute sighed, and once more stood up. It lifted a finger to its thick lips and breathed out, before picking up the ration can and once more offering it.

Len sat down on the bed, and stared at the ration can a moment. The Brute walked over to his bed (which was against one of the walls), and climbed in. His loud snores soon filled the room as he slipped into sleep. Len ate the ration, using his hands to scoop out contents, and when it was empty, he lay down on his bed (which was where he had woken up) and closed his eyes, slipping into another dreamless sleep.

"Can I have some clothing?" Len asked, the following day. When he had woken up, the Brute was gone, although the empty ration can had been replaced with a fresh one, which Len ate voraciously, finding himself oddly hungry. And then he waited until the Brute came back. "Clothing," Len said again. He pointed at the pants the Brute wore, then at his own bare lower body. He didn't enjoy being nude, but he didn't feel a sense of shame, viewing the Brute as little above a simple animal. The Brute muttered something in its growls, but left the room, coming back some time later with a pair of pants. At first Len couldn't imagine they would fit, but they were made of some sort of elastic material that could slip onto him with only a bit of wrestling. He felt better to have something covering him, and looked to the Brute. "Thank you," he said.

The Brute didn't respond. It made the gesture for Len to follow, which Len, actually rather eager to finally leave this room and see what it was like on a real Covenant ship, did without any hesitation. The hallways were made of the same dark material as the inside of the room, with the slightly glowing lights lining the floors and ceiling. Why the Covenant would like such dark surroundings was beyond him, but he made note of it nonetheless. He followed the Brute, its large frame an easy to follow silhouette in the dim lights. When the Brute moved to the side of the hallway, Len mimicked the gesture, and moved closer to its back when a pair of Elites passed them. These two Elites both wore red armor, and their glares were quite apparent, even in the darkness of the hall. Len wondered if they were glaring at him, or the Brute. Either way, he was happy when they passed, and Len resumed his walk.

He was brought into a room that at first Len didn't understand the purpose of. It was brighter lit than the other rooms, with several oddly shaped things lining the walls, and several mirrors. The Brute shuffled to one of the walls, and between two dexterous fingers picked up what Len would later figure out was the Covenant's equivalent of a free weight. The Brute brought it to Len, and stretched out his hand. Instinctively, Len took it, but when the Brute let go, Len felt his hand come crashing to the ground. Len's body followed, and he was suddenly on the ground. Looking forward, he saw the Brute's feet, and heard and felt deep laughter rumble above him. The Brute squatted down, and wrapping one hand around Len's torso, effortlessly brought Len back to his feet. Picking up the free weight, the Brute walked to the wall and selected a smaller one, bringing it back to Len. Len was more careful in reaching for it, and managed to hold it with both hands, though even then he was struggling slightly.

The Brute held the hands that held the weight, and aided Len in lifting it, up and down, up and down. His arms soon began to ache, but he gritted his teeth and continued, until the Brute eased the weight into his own hand and allowed Len to rest.

This continued for ten cycles… this insane routine. Every morning, Len ate and showered, exercised, and then was brought back to the room to eat once more. Most of his down time was spent sleeping or staring at the walls, at least when the Brute wasn't there. When the Brute was in, Len found himself staring at him. Perhaps the Brute wanted him as a pet. That would explain so much. And the Brute was very strict about his feeding times, perhaps because he thought Len was malnourished.

It was an insane routine, but Len had to admit… he didn't mind it. Brute was mostly passive towards him, only interacting to make sure he had eaten or take him to the gym to exercise. When he was inside, the Brute left him alone. If Len wanted to stretch his legs, he would tap the Brute's side and gesture to the door, and the Brute escorted him about the ship with bored passivity. He never struck Len, perhaps because Len never earned a strike across the jaw.

It was remarkable how little the Brute actually paid attention to him. He didn't seem concerned that Len lingered a bit too long on the bridge or in the engine room. He just passively stood aside while Len examined it. Perhaps the Brute knew Len would never escape, but Len didn't care. It was fascinating to see the ship in actions. And, truthfully, he felt safe when the Brute was around. The Elites never hesitated to give him a glare or snarl, but the Brute was always there, gave a token snarl back and they were on their way.

Ten cycles passed. Ten of these insane cycles, and by the last, Len actually fancied that he was looking rather good. Of course, being on a ship of aliens who would have made the world's strongest man look like an infant, Len still felt vaguely inadequate. Especially when he watched the Brute's weight training regime, which was nothing short of madness. But when he looked in the mirror, and looked at himself, as a human, and compared himself to how he used to be, he had to admit he looked good. He had a sort of lean, slim physique now, the result of the high protein rations and the weight training the Brute had put him through, every day for all those hours. Sometimes he dreamed about going back to school, and beating the living hell out of all the bullies he had had to deal with. Or getting into a fight with Lewis. Even if he didn't win, he imagined he could get a few good hits in.

But then on the eleventh cycle, the Brute gestured that Len was to follow. First, Len was brought to an armory, and was given an armored cuirass that Len had seen the Jackals on the ship wear. With that, the Brute brought Len onto a dropship, and sat him down on in the co-pilot's seat. The Brute piloted the dropship through the recesses of space, away from whatever ship they had been living on, and approached something absolutely massive. Len had been on human ships before. He had been on science vessels that boasted entire city populations, double a city's population, because there were the people who maintained the ship and the scientists who worked on new weapons. He had walked through those ships, and smiled because he believed humanity had truly done something amazing. But sitting in the dropship beside the Brute, and seeing the ship that could have been a world in and of itself, it was awe inspiring.

The dropship moved into a hangar, and landed. Len looked the Brute for some direction of what to do. The Brute stood, and when Len stood as well, the Brute took Len by the shoulder. Len swallowed, and looked up to the Chieftain's eyes. The Chieftain simply made the "Shhh" gesture, and then positioned Len at his front as they started to walk.

For how large the ship was, Len was almost expecting Elites and Brutes to be going about shoulder to shoulder. He almost expected to see a crowded city, thousands and millions of aliens barely able to move like how several cities back on Earth were. To his great surprise, the hangar was almost completely empty. There were a couple of jelly-fishes floating about, the real name of their species escaped Len at the moment. And a couple of giant insects fluttered about. And a pudgy Grunt that was there to greet him and his bodyguard. The Grunt squeaked a few words, the Brute growled, and then they were moving once more, out of the hangar, into the hallways. They crisscrossed several times, moving faster when they passed a patrolling Elite, and at last came to a doorway. The Brute lifted his hand to open the door somehow, but then hesitated and actually took a step back (Len had to step to his side or he might have accidentally been trampled).

If a Brute was capable of fear, then whatever was behind the doorway was terrifying to the Chieftain. He sighed, and rubbed his eyes, before looking to Len. He placed his hand upon the door, and the door opened. Putting Len in front of him, a knee to the rump kicked the little human inside, and the door closed with a low whirr. Len tried opening it, but of course it didn't. And without anything else to do, he turned towards the other side of the room, noticing the room was actually fairly well lit, and sitting at the farthest end of the room, in a grand throne, was a Prophet.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

"I wanted a Demon," the Prophetess of Innocence said in clumsy (though audible) English, which in and of itself took Len by surprise. Still at the opposite side of the throne room, pressing against the door that refused to open, he could only stare, mouth agape, as the Prophet looked at him passively. "I would have even settled for one of the larvae Demons, but… well, I suppose Kriti can't blamed for failing. He's a saint for keeping you around, and keeping you safe, isn't he?"

The question was directed at Len, but Len's mouth didn't want to close, and he realized he hadn't taken a breath since he had turned around.

The Prophetess stood, bracing herself on the arms of her throne, and with a heavy huff she righted herself. She still walked with an awkward gait and visible hunch, but the front of her throne opened to the sides and she could walk forward without any obstructions. She was large, and grew larger the closer she came, until she was standing before Len, towering over him at a good seven feet, even hunched. Her eyes were large and black, with a hint of violet around the edges. Her skin, or what skin could be seen beneath her royal purple dress/gown (her hands and face and neck in particular) where a soft brown color, almost like milk chocolate. She lowered her head, and blinked twice, as she stared at Len, and then her lips turned up in a soft smile. "Oh relax, little human. I'm not going to eat you. Kriti might, and bless him for showing such self-restraint when presented with a morsel like you. What is your name, little one?"

"Len…" he said quickly, and with a deep breath had calmed down.

"Len? An interesting name. A beautiful one in fact. It could be a Sangheili's name, with its rugged simplicity." The Prophetess turned, and began to shuffle back to her throne. "You can remove that armor if you like. You look uncomfortable."

Although it was uncomfortable, it was armor, and Len felt safer to have it protecting his chest. Much to his surprise, the Prophetess did not return to her throne, but instead moved to one of the sides of the room, and gathered a glass of wine. What was remarkable was that it was a human wine glass. At first Len thought it was an incredible coincidence that the Covenant should have glasses in the same shape, but he noticed other things by focusing his eyes: a bucket with the top of a wine bottle just showing out of the rim; a bucket and wine bottle that most likely came from a human resort ship.

"You fascinate me," the Prophetess said, looking over her shoulder, and turning, now carrying a wine glassed filled with violet in either hand. "Not you in particular, although I'm sure you are truly fascinating. But you humans. You are remarkable creatures. I have Kriti run… errands for me, from time to time. When he raids a human ship, and finds something intact, I have him bring it to me. He is well paid for the risk, and I assure him that I would take full responsibility if anyone found out, not that anyone really cares. The Sangheili, despite their tiresome chatter about honor, are fascinated with your kind as well, and occasionally sample your finer spirits. And Regret, well, don't tell anyone, but I know what he puts in his hookah." She giggled, warm and sweet, and Len realized she was upon him once again. She stretched out a feeble hand, and offered him the wine glass, which he took without really thinking.

"To new friends," she said, lifting her glass to her lips and taking a slow drink. Len didn't drink from it. "Oh really, little one. If I wanted to kill you, I would have had Kriti tear off your head. I did want a Demon though…" She sighed. "Kriti, come in here. I want a Demon. Take this one back. I think he's broken."

"Ma'am…" Len said, voice quivering, and desperately praying that she would understand him. She turned to him, and smiled.

"You can call me Innocence."

"I-innocence… may I ask what I am doing here?"

"Surely Kriti told you?"

"No ma'am, he hasn't even spoken. I was not aware that you ali-… uhm… your species were capable of speaking English."

"Not all of us, mind you. But the Unggoy have a knack for languages. And they learn your language remarkably fast. And they taught me, with time. There are some translators floating around the universe, although I understand Kriti's lack of desire for one. He barely speaks, anyway. Oh yes, why you are here. I would just like to talk. Nothing… sinister, I promise. I would just like to… talk, about anything. About your childhood, your past, your desires, your interests. Anything."

"I don't know where to start…"

"Would you like me to go first? I was born Io Kioko, and formerly known as the Minister of Noble Guidance. I have served the Noble Covenant my entire adult life, inspiring the troops to continue fighting the heretics."

"You mean us humans."

"You are heretics," the Prophetess said with a smile on her face, if it could be called a smile on a face so distinctly alien. "You fail to acknowledge the Glorious Covenant, and the rapture that we approach, and even now you stand against us. But I do believe that you are just misguided, not malicious as some seem to believe. Like the Unggoy, the Kig-Yar, even the Jiralhanae, you just need something to believe in, isn't that right?"

"We have our own beliefs, ma'am," Len said.

The Prophetess reached forward, and for a moment took Len around the neck. He thought she was going to strangle him, and was just lifting his hands to push her back, when he felt her tug at the chain he wore around his throat. She leaned closer, eyes closing in on the small crucifix that was around his neck. "Ah yes, your gods. I have heard prisoners pray to them, before Kriti's hammer came down upon their skull. Odd that your gods remain silent, while ours guide our way."

Len wasn't really sure what to say. It seemed that she enjoyed talking, and the longer she talked, the longer he was alive. For a brief moment, he actually wondered if he could take her in a fight. He had certainly grown stronger these past days, and she looked almost frail. Of course, most of her body was concealed inside her robe, and he hadn't any idea what kind of build these creatures had. Perhaps they only looked frail, but had some sort of toned strength he couldn't comprehend. But there was something about how she moved; the hunch in her back, the way she almost shivered and seemed likely to collapse if he exhaled too hard. And she was very close. He could go for a quick sucker-punch to knock her down, and then kick her, and stomp her, and make sure that she was dead.

Of course, the Brute was probably close by, if not right outside, pressed up against the door and listening. Or there were cameras around the room, and the moment he showed any hostility, a thousand rabid Grunts would swarm inside and tear him apart.

"If you were to accept our gods, however," the prophetess continued. "If you were to denounce your heretic beliefs and accept our path, I could assure your salvation. The Great Journey will come, child, and all the filthy shall be washed away. You need not be swept away like a sickness, no. You could survive, eternally, with us."

She reached a hand forward, and softly stroked Len's cheek. Her touch was warm, but made Len feel sick. He wanted to back away, but did not want the Brute to come stomping in here if she called out for him. "Think about it, child. Salvation, or damnation. We can discuss it tomorrow. For tonight, I had a room prepared for you. I hope it is to your liking. Kriti will escort you, and if you require anything, you need only tell him. Say the word, and he will cater to you like a newborn."

Len swallowed slightly. "Thank you, ma'am. That's very generous of you."

"It is nothing for a Prophetess." She smiled, and turned, starting to head out the door. "Come along, child."

Len followed the tall, lanky creature as they moved through the room, back towards the door he had come through. He was relieved to be leaving her presence, and back into the company of the Brute. Not that he liked to be around the Brute, but at least the Brute was simple. And, for how massive and clearly angry it was to have him around, the Brute had been surprisingly gentle. He was like a large, furry version of Lewis. The Prophetess was different. She was a politician. Her words dripped out of her lips like syrup. Len did not like politicians.

The door opened, and at first Len thought the Brute had wandered off. Soon enough though, the Brute hurried down the hall and saluted the prophetess.

"Now, Kriti, I want you to be nicer to this little one. He's our guest after all. Treat him as such. Treat him like you would treat me. Do you understand?"

The chieftain nodded softly.

"Say that you understand, Kriti," the prophetess said. "And speak in the human's language. You have been keeping up with your lessons, have you not? I have made arrangements for you to expand your mind, I would be insulted if you have not accepted my offer."

The Brute opened his mouth, and then sighed heavily. His green eyes glanced side to side, as if he were lost and looking for something to do, some way to escape. Eventually his eyes fell upon the prophetess again, and with a heavy sigh, he opened his mouth. "I… understand… ma'am. I am sorry."

The Brute's voice was… it was like seeing a rabid Rottweiler whimpering like a puppy. The Brute's shoulders were drooped and fists were clenched so tight, there was blood trickling out of the tight grip. Somehow he managed to keep his breathing steady, or the Prophetess might have found his warm breath blowing over her face insulting.

"Thank you Kriti. Keep up with your lessons. And don't leave the ship. I will require your services in the foreseeable future. I want you to make sure this human is taken care of. You can handle that, right? If he asks for anything, go to the market and get him whatever he wants. And if any harm comes to him, I will hold you accountable."

"…Yes… ma'am…" the Brute said.

The prophetess smiled, before turning, the door coming to a close behind her.

Len, looking to the Brute, quickly took several steps back. For a long moment, the Brute fumed with silent rage. He stood there, body starting to quake with anger, fists still clenched so tight. With a roar, the Brute had suddenly swung one of his fists into the wall of the hallway. The wall screamed and shook, struggling to retain its shape under the sudden applied force. A shockwave ran through the length of the wall, eventually the dark metallic shaking and denting deep. Len continued to back away as the Brute turned, and this time punched his fist through the dented wall, burying his arm up to mid-bicep. With a snarl he pulled his arm out, and shook it free of the particles of wall. His knuckles were bleeding, as was his arm. Perhaps it had caught a sharp edge when it was inside the wall. He sighed heavily, and then looked to Len, who stood down the hallway a few feet. He looked at Len with a weak, sad face. Was he embarrassed he was bleeding now, showing weakness? He doubted a Spartan could have done that. But the Brute leaned onto the wall and rested and sighed deeply, and he seemed human enough that Len felt a pang of sympathy in his heart.

"Hey…" Len said. "She's a cunt."

The chieftain growled, and gestured for Len to follow. For Len's part, he quickly came to stand at the Brute's heels, then tried moving to his side. The Brute did not care. Once more, one of his massive fists swung into the wall, making another dent. It was the Brute's off side, opposite Len, but Len still jumped at the immense break of the ship's wall. The Brute looked to him, then to the wall, then back to Len. It suddenly laughed, as if privy to an inside joke, and then headed down the hallway, Len lingering behind.

He turned around for no reason, and noticed an Elite that had turned the corner behind them. The Elite wore red, which, Len believed meant it was a somewhat low rank. What struck Len's interest, however, was how it moved. It was running, which in and of itself seemed odd, considering they were in a spaceship hallway. The Elite was hunched over, but its hoofs fell to the ground nearly silently. So silent in fact that the Brute, with its feral senses, didn't seem to notice, though the Brute was still laughing at its inside joke. The Elite ran right past Len, seemingly unconcerned with him, and then gave a sudden roar. The Chieftain heard this roar, and turned, just as the Elite leapt into the air and extended one of its legs at the Chieftain's chest.

The impact of the flying kick was so severe that the Brute's cuirass dented inwards, and he gave a deep roar of pain as he was suddenly spiraling and spinning, rolling down the hallway, finally crashing through a wall that was at his back and landing in the darkness of another room. Then the Elite turned to Len, and quickly snatched him up. He was squeezed and held tight against the Elite's cuirass, as it suddenly began running down the hallway, with the same speed and near silent grace as before…


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

Len did not say a word as he was whisked through the labyrinth hallway of the space station. He did not scream or shout or kick. He bit his tongue as he smashed against the armored cuirass of the Elite, each time it made a wide stride. Not to mention, his arm was in an odd position, wrenched behind him as he was carried, and his shoulder felt like it was inches away from snapping out of the joint. But he did not make a noise.

Eventually, the Elite leapt into the air and then braced itself, sliding several dozen feet over the polished ground and finally coming to a halt against a wall. Len struck against the armored chest, smashing his face and tasting blood, and the Elite set him down and peeked around the corner. A growl escaped the Elite's massive throat, followed by typing at the wrist mounted computer on its forearm. A moment later, the ground beneath Len's feet shook, and only bracing himself against the wall did he keep from falling. Before he knew what was happening, the Elite had picked him up, and it was running once more, Len bouncing painfully against it.

He was in the hangar, he and the Elite, and somewhere to the left there was a raging inferno. What looked like four dropships had all burst into flames. Grunts panicking and screaming, the giant insects were buzzing and hissing, and the jellyfish were floating about quite unbothered. Len was carried into a dropship that was in tact, and then thrown against a seat. Another Elite, this one wearing blue so he knew it was not the one who had been carrying him, quickly buckled him to the seat to keep him restrained, not that he was stupid enough to run. And with their quarry taken care of, the red Elite immediately began barking out orders. The dropships ramp rose and sealed closed, followed by the dropship lifting off. And without windows to see the stars outside his window, Len simply tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

He didn't dare sleep. He remained vigilant and keen and listening to every stomp of hoof or bark that the Elites gave to each other. They seemed to mostly ignore him for the time being, in the sense that the growls were always distant and the hoof stomps never approached where he was. Then he felt a grip on his arm, and he was hoisted up. The red Elite from before (how Len could tell it was him, he didn't know) picked Len up and examined him. Then, setting him down, the Elite ordered him forward with an erect finger aimed out of the back of the dropship. Len walked casually with the Elite at his blindside, guided with taps on the shoulder, eventually reaching some sort of barren room, bare of anything. A knee in his rump knocked Len onto his knees inside. The Elite stepped in after him, and the door closed behind him. He was on the ground now, on his hands and knees, but when he tried to stand he felt a crushing weight on his back that pushed him into the floor. He managed to crane his head back just barely, and look over his shoulder at the long slender leg of the Elite, its hoof now in his back. No further pressure was applied, so he didn't bother to struggle to escape. He just assumed the Elite wanted him down, and was fine with laying on his stomach for the time being, until the hoof lifted off him and was placed back on the ground. He tried rolling onto his back, and when that didn't cause any further pain, he risked sitting up, before scooting back and resting against the wall. Why he was forced to sit down, he wasn't sure. Perhaps the Elite just wanted to make the size difference that much more apparent. Of course, it was as gigantic as any Elite was, so why it needed to flaunt it… these aliens were so vain and petty. Just like the Brute. Just like the Prophetess. They acted so stupid.

The Elite walked in front of Len, and then squatted. A long finger reached into some sort of utility belt the Elite wore on its hips, and from out of the belt came its finger, now with a long cord ending in a rounded weight. The Elite handed him the cord, and then tapped Len's ear. Len shrugged, figuring what was expected of him quickly, and brought the black dot to his ear, slipping it inside and setting it snug.

"My name is Len Roberts," he said casually, passively. "That is all I am at liberty to say."

"I do not care about your name, human."

He had figured that what the Elite offered was a translator. It didn't surprise him when he could understand the guttural growls and roars of the Elite in one ear. The other ear, which did not have the translator, heard only the usual snarls, which made it truly odd for him. "Then what is it you want, sir?"

"I am a Shipmistress. You will address me as such."

"Uhm… yes ma'am… Shipmistress. Considering you have not decapitated me, I assume there is something that you want?"

"When my contacts aboard the Brute's ship first told me that he had abducted a human, I assumed he desired a pet. But when I learned that you were being brought to the Prophetess' flagship, I hoped an opportunity to assassinate the witch would present itself, but she and her pet Brute were as vigilant as ever. If nothing else, I decided, I would irritate her and steal her new pet. I know not why, but she is fascinated with you humans. And she is a spoiled thing. She will make the Brute fetch another of you, and then I can take him…"

"Then… I suppose you can let me go, as I serve no further purpose."

If aliens could laugh, the shipmistress did just then. Her mandibles upturned into a slight grin. "No human." And she stood, and once more her towering height was above him. "I was going to simply release you into the vacuum of space, but my lieutenant suggested something that was more productive. Tell me, human. How much do you think you are worth?"

Len stared, rather confused.

"I have had dealings with humans in the past."

"I thought that the alien policy was kill on sight, shipmistress."

"Not all of us are so zealous. If you humans know their proper place at our feet, I see no reason to treat you different than the Brutes or the Unggoy. It's the San'Shyuum, human. They are the ones who blind my brothers. They are the ones who…" She paused, and gathered her thoughts. "I have no problem with you, human. Understand that. None the men on this ship, under my command, have any real ill will to your kind. Many even respect you, view you as commendable soldiers. So if you behave yourself, if you do not do anything to earn my wrath, you will be handed over to your brothers. But if you do anything less, I will gut you myself."

Len nodded passively. "I understand ma'am. May I stand up?"

The shipmistress shrugged, and Len slowly got to his feet. "I was in the Prophetess of Innocent's quarters. She mentioned that she likes human items. She mentioned that Kriti… uhm… I assume that Brute, retrieves them for her. Maybe you could set a trap for him. Or booby trap the stuff. Or anything like that. And, if you want to take the Brute out, do it right after he's spoken to the prophetess. I mean… you probably know that. But… the way she talks to him. It shakes him up like… Well, just some things to consider, ma'am. If you would like to send a Grunt in, I'll be happy to tell him everything I know."

"You needn't lie just to keep your throat intact. My word is my bond, human. No harm will come to you as long as you do not resist."

"I'm not lying ma'am. I have seen planet after planet burned to glass because of you monsters. And if I can help one monster kill another monster, I don't care. And you should kill me now, because if I'm released, I will tell the military everything that I saw and help them however I can to hunt you down."

The shipmistress turned her back, but in a flash she had kicked one of her legs out and struck Len hard in the chest. The force of the kick knocked him into the wall. He felt an agonizing pain run through him, as the force rushed through his chest and into the wall, but when the wall did not yield the shockwave of agony rushed back through him. He felt ribs break and shatter, and the instinctive suck of air only caused tears to swell in his eyes. The training that his body had gone through under the Brute's tutelage was all that had spared him an instant death, but he still slunk to the ground, holding himself, sobbing, as the shipmistress closed the door behind her, and locked him in darkness.

And in darkness he remained. The agonizing pain in his chest eventually succumb to dull agony that felt like it would stay with him for the rest of his life. He eventually turned himself, and sat down, leaning his back against a wall.

"No time for that," he muttered, and gritting his teeth, he got to his feet. Blindly he pawed in the darkness until he found the opposing wall. Brushing his fingers over the cool smoothness, he eventually found the smallest of indents, what signified the outline of the door against the flatness of the wall. He traced his fingers to the side, and after determining where the door was, he took a few steps back. Bracing his legs, he suddenly threw himself forward with all his might and slammed with his full weight into the door. He immediately bounced back, landing hard on his sore rump, and spent several agonizing minutes racked with pain like he had never known. His chest… by God, his chest. He did not know that anything could ever hurt that much. He had been struck between the legs before, but that left him with a sickness more than pain. This was just raw agony coursing through him.

When at last he could stand, he approached the door, careful and weary as if he were approaching a wild beast. He worked and wiggled his fingers into the slit that parted the door from the wall as careful as he could. He bite his tongue as his nails peeled back under the force, but he continued wiggling and prying, and when he had a good grip (or as good a grip as he could have), he strained every muscle in his body to pry the door open.

It did nothing, of course. When he had to stop to catch his breath, when the pain that was surging through his body was too intense, he stopped and checked the door, and saw there was no evidence of his exertion save the wet blood where his fingers had been. His fingers were bleeding. He licked them clean to lubricate them, and then tried again.

It seemed like an eternity, but eventually he could smile wide at the pale light that was spilling through the crack in the door he had made. He put his hands there, just to be sure it was real. He could see the red covering his fingers; the nails pulled back and off the fresh, tender skin. As he had hoped, this wasn't a prison cell. It was probably something like the Covenant's idea of a walk in closet. The shipmistress had assumed he would stay docile and dumb in the darkness, waiting for the moment of his execution. He worked his fingers into the smallest crack in the door he had made, and bracing his feet into the ground, began to pull.


	5. Chapter 5

**(I'm sorry about the delays with updates. I've had difficulty writing lately, as well as having to do other things. Hopefully I can get chapter 6 up soon though. Thanks for reading.)**

_**Chapter 5**_

After what seemed like hours of straining and pulling, Len at last managed to pull the door enough that he thought he could squeeze through. He attempted such, first putting his left arm outside into the stale air of the ship's hallway, and this his left pectoral. He sucked in as deep a breath he could, and slid his torso, perhaps the widest part of him, through the opening he had made. Then his groin, the pressure on which nearly made him throw up but he swallowed his gorge and slipped his feet out, and at last he was free. Covered in scrapes over his bare skin, he looked down at himself, slick with blood, his fingers raw, the skin peeled back to the white bone. He was panting now, his hair matted, and he realized how incredibly thirsty he was, how hard he had been working and sweating to get out. He was free though. And to be honest, at this moment, he almost wanted to cry. He just wanted to break down and let it all be done.

But there was no time for that. He tried to stand, but a grip took him by the back of his throat and hoisted him to his feet, setting him down before he even had a chance to panic and try to kick out of the hold. He turned to face the red cuirass of an Elite, and craned his head up to look at the smiling mandibles of the alien.

"That was impressive human. The grit and determination in your heart, if only the Unggoy showed such will. No, no, human. Don't run." A hand found his shoulder, the fingers pressed tight enough into the skin his shoulder almost snapped under the pressure. He was yanked back to standing before the Elite, still staring at the cuirass. "There will be none of that. We are giving you to your humans after all. I would hate to decapitate you when you are so close to coming to the arms of your brothers. Come along, human, or I will break your leg."

This was hell. He was in hell. He had died, all those years ago on Bridge, and now was just trudging from day to day in a hellish nightmare, that try as he might he couldn't wake from. He knew that the Elite was lying when it said he was going to be handed off to humans. There was no way that the UNSC had any dealings with the aliens, even a rogue faction. It was absurd. Everything about this was absurd.

He didn't bother resisting the Elite. Eight feet tall and stronger than a Spartan, what chance did he have? He looked to his side, and stared at the dark grey handle that was magnetized to the Elite's thigh, the dark grey contrasting sharply against the polished red. He had seen enough energy swords in the labs to know how they worked. ONI wanted to somehow reverse engineer the swords, learn how they were powered, how they worked, how to recharge their energy in the field. None of that had ever worked out, but he did know how to activate them. There was no switch or button, simply pressure on the center handle and the blade sprang to life. If he was fast enough to grab it, and pull it off the magnetized thigh armor, that was of course assuming he was physically strong enough to pry it away from the magnetization, and do all this before the Elite noticed anything…

Yeah, that would work. He resumed looking forward. He resumed walking, slowly, and when they entered the dropship, he did not resist. He sat down in the chair on the dropship, and allowed himself to be buckled in to the seat. And there he waited.

About an hour later, the dropship had landed down onto a planet of rocky sand and orange gas, and Len was unbuckled from the seat and guided out of the dropship, and into the two suns of the desert world.

The sun hit him, and blinded him. He cast about dumbly for a moment, unable to see, until a force struck him in the chest and winded him severely. He fell forward, to his knees, gasping and groaning. His chest felt like it was made of shattered glass. He growled, and put a hand on his knee. Then, with a heavy huff, he rose off the ground and managed to stand. He cupped a hand over his eye and looked forward, wheezing, as he stared at the red clad Elite that had struck him in the chest with one of her massive hooves. He gritted his teeth. And then they walked.

There was a squad of eight Elites in total. The shipmistress, who wore red, and her lieutenant, whose armor was a dark shade of blue. The other six Elites wore light blue. The six grunts were carrying plasma rifles, the lieutenant a pair of plasma swords, and the shipmistress was unarmed, which somehow seemed strange. Her cape was closed, her arms hidden beneath it, so perhaps she did have something hidden.

The Elites suddenly came to a stop. Len stopped as well, and did his best to peek around the giants to see who they were meeting with. Did he expect to see an entire platoon of UNSC, all guns trained on the aliens? Or one single Spartan standing there at the ready, arms crossed, as he waited for the trade to be done.

Instead he saw a woman and seven guards, and his stomach tightened into a knot.

Ten years in ONI, and Len had memorized every criminal on the 10 Most Wanted List, simply because he so often saw them in briefings. And standing here before him was "Hurricane" Gina, ONI's Number 2. She stood tall and proud, a wide grin on her face as she eyed Len, and then looked to the aliens that were approaching him. The armor she wore was an odd mockery of an ONI Helljumper's. She wore a silver jumpsuit, over this plates of dark orange body armor (orange being the signature color of her terrorist group.) Her personal guard of seven were dressed the same, all carrying assault rifles that had probably been pillaged from an ONI supply base or taken off slain ONI soldiers. On their belt they carried ONI issue suppressed pistols, on their chest knives that had the ONI emblem on their blade no doubt.

Gina walked forward. The Elite in red walked forward as well, and for a moment they stood in the middle of the field, staring at each other, for no other reason than to add dramatic tension as far as Len could tell. "Hundred rifles," Gina finally said. "Like we agreed." Gina gestured to a large crate that was on "her" side of the field. A moment later, two of her guards had broken from the main group, and began to push the crate. It was on a hover lift, so it moved relatively easily despite its enormous size. Halfway forward, two of the Elites took the crate from the humans. And a moment later, Len was kicked forward, and landed on his hands and knees before Gina. He managed to look over his shoulder at the Elites, who, no longer interested in the humans, had turned their back and begun to walk away. Gina gestured for someone to grab their prisoner, while her and six of her guards turned and headed away. The seventh guard grabbed Len under the arm and hoisted him to his feet.

He walked a while. He put one foot forward, and then the other, and the other. He was looking at his feet, afraid he would trip and then hurt himself even further. He was purposely walking slow as well, as any man does when walking to his execution.

Even in times of war and genocidal aliens, there were people like "Hurricane" Gina. A terrorist who fancied herself a freedom fighter, her crimes ranged from extortion and sabotage to the televised execution of any UNSC marines she had captured. She would hack into television stations and display, for all eyes to see, her dragging a hefty knife across a sobbing marine's throat. That's what she was going to do to Len. The UNSC had been on her tail for… years. But they could never quite catch her.

"Hurry up, welp," the soldier who was watching Len ordered. Len looked to him weakly, then looked forward, and noticed that his slower pace meant that Gina and her guards were several paces forward. And with how slow his stride was, she was getting farther and farther ahead. She didn't seem to notice, or if she did, she didn't care, but the man at his side pulled a baton off his belt and placed it at Len's throat, causing Len to stop. "Move, or I break your leg."

"If you cripple me, you'll have to carry me," Len said casually. His eyes were forward, as he watched Gina and her personal guard continue, putting more and more space between them.

The soldier cracked the baton across Len's jaw, and Len stumbled to the ground. "Fucking weak little fuck," the soldier muttered, and grabbed Len's collar. He put Len on his feet, and turned Len to face him, but Len had picked up a large rock from the ground, and swung with all his might. The rock crashed into the side of the soldier's head. Skull caved and blood splashed onto Len's fingers, as the body fell to the ground. In an instant, Len was upon him, more or less falling onto the soldier who was gasping and spitting up blood, still alive though. Len lifted the rock over his head and brought it down upon the skull, crushing it between the rock and the solid ground. And again, as crimson splashed onto his fingers and his arms began to ache from the exertion. One final time he brought the rock down, and the skull was flattened between the unyielding earth and the rock he brandished.

Len looked to Gina and her guard. She was still walking, still laughing with her guards. Len grabbed the dead soldier's pistol, and then the assault rifle. He braced it on into his shoulder and held it steady with both hands. His hands were shaking, his breath was ragged. But Number 2 on ONI's most wanted list was two hundred yards away. The very moment that he squeezed the trigger, she would turn around. And at this range, there was little chance that such a poor shot as he would be able to shoot her in the head. Otherwise, her body armor would protect her.

But it didn't matter in the end. Because Number 2 on ONI's most wanted list was in front of him. And while he could try to run, try to flee and contact the UNSC somehow, he would not pass up this chance. Even if he died, he was going to at least try to take her down with him…


	6. Chapter 6

**(I probably won't be posting on FF much anymore. I've moved to original writing and stuff, and post on other sites. Every so often I'll probably post something, but it's not really worth watching me. This fic went through some changes in the planning stage. I had only really written chapter one through four before I started posting, so the last two chapters were original ideas. I noticed that the fic was growing progressively more violent and dark as the chapters went on, which I found rather interesting. I hope everyone enjoys, and has enjoyed my writing)**

_**Chapter 6**_

The recoil of the assault rifle almost broke Len's shoulder, but the muscle on his pectorals padded the impact enough he could hold himself straight. The kick of the rifle butted into him, pushing him back, until his weight pulled him forward once more. He at least knew enough to fire in bursts instead of full auto, but his aim was awful and the gun kept kicking comically into the sky. But he released the trigger and allowed his weight to reset his position, and then he squeezed the trigger once more. He failed to kill Gina (not that he honestly thought he would), but did manage to hit one of her elite guards before they all ducked behind the cover of mounds of sand or large rocks. And still, Len continued to fire, hoping beyond hope that somehow the bullets might magically curve around the cover and find his target.

When the gun finally clicked, signifying the magazine was empty, Len kept his finger on the trigger, as if confused how the gun worked. He tugged the trigger several times, hoping more bullets would spill out, but none did. At last he simply threw the rifle aside and began to run as fast as he could over the shifting sands of the ground, trying to flee.

"Lucas," Gina said, rising from her cover when the shooting had stopped. "Bring him back. Alive if you can. If not, I want his dick on a silver platter. And make it quick. I'm tired of this planet."

"Understood, Gina," said Lucas, who was perhaps the largest of Gina's elite in terms of girth, and he began to chase after Len, moving at a gradual jog. Len by contrast, was running full tilt with all his might, panicked and furious, so he did not notice the uneven spots on the sandy ground. He abruptly fell forward, landing face first in the hot sand.

He was clawing at the ground, trying to get to his feet, when he heard the crunch of boots on sand behind him. Len pulled the pistol from his waistband and turned, but his hand was caught, and a twist of the wrist caused the pistol to tumble out of his grip. And then a knee was lifted into his face, and knocked him onto his back. He smelled blood. His nose was probably broken, and his front teeth felt loose, but he stumbled to his feet and swung a sloppy haymaker at Lucas, who casually caught the fist and delivered his own punch into Len's face. Len would have fallen back, had he not caught hold of the hand that was holding him. He did allow himself to fall back, and allowed his weight to rest for a moment, before he thrust himself forward and slammed his head into the Lucas' nose. Len braced himself a moment, and then swung his foot with all his might into Lucas' groin. His ankle and toes and foot suddenly felt like they had all shattered, perhaps he had hit a groin protector, but Lucas choked on a gasp and fell forward, onto his knees. Len was now pressing against him, swinging fists into the soldier's already broken nose and throwing his full weight against him. And after Lucas was on his back, Len was on top of him, using his fingers and overgrown nails to tear at the face. His fingers dug into Lucas' throat and he felt warm blood on his fingers, as he pushed his nails in deeper, and suddenly ripped his hand back.

And suddenly Len was aware of what was happening, and looked down at the torn and mangled corpse beneath him. Len was panting loudly. What had happened? What had he done? He was aware of it, and yet he couldn't believe it. He brushed his hair out of his face, washing blood over his skin, and he slowly got to his feet.

He heard something. He saved the soldier's radio from being damaged by the spreading blood, and listened closely to it.

"Lucas," came Gina's voice. "UNSC is on the planet. Just shoot the idiot in the head and come on."

Len stared down at the corpse. He pulled the dog tags from the body and looked at them. **Roberts, Lucas P. Praetorian Guard. Blood type: AB, **he read. Funny, in all the universe, he killed someone who shared his surname.

Len sighed. "I'm sorry," he said to the mauled corpse, and then adjusted the frequency on the walkie-talkie. "This is Len Roberts, broadcasting on signal 346.7, ONI Special Operations frequency. Does anyone copy?" He paused. His mouth was dry. He wondered if the soldier might have a power bar or a canteen. He did take the knife off the soldier's chest and attached it to his pants. After that, he took the soldier's utility belt, and buckled it around his narrow hips. It didn't fit as snuggly as he would have liked, so instead he simply slung it over his shoulder. "This is Len Roberts, broadcasting on signal 346.7, ONI Special Operations frequency… please copy… anyone."

Breathless he waited, staring at the walkie-talkie, shivering slightly, gripping it tighter and squeezing it. He was about to speak into it one more time when it suddenly grumbled to life. "This is Commander Hector-320, who am I addressing."

Len swallowed, trying to alleviate his parched throat. "My name is Len Roberts. I was kidnapped from… fuck it. You're a Spartan? Listen to me carefully: track this frequency. I will leave the radio on and on my person. 'Hurricane' Gina is on this planet with her elite guard. I am going to attempt to stop her. Follow this frequency. We need to stop her."

Len put the walkie-talkie into an empty pouch on the utility belt. He took out a canteen and took the time to drink, and then was lucky enough to find a protein bar. He opened it and began to eat, as he started to run back the way he had come, as fast as he could. He tripped a great deal, tumbling over his feet and from the exhaustion that was tearing through his body, not to mention his foot felt broken. But each time he fell, he stood back up, and pressed on, stumbling and straining to reach her. If he had even heard the voice on the radio, the Spartan, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it had just been a delusion, brought about from a tired mind. Or perhaps the UNSC had indeed been tracking Gina down, and stumbled upon this planet. ONI had any number of close calls with her, but she always just managed to slip through ONI's fingers.

Off in the distance, he saw a few black shapes, and he ran faster, wheezing and gasping for air as he continued. The shape of a pair of Warthogs became more apparent, as did the shape of several figures standing before them, preparing to drive off "Gina!" he shouted, voice dry. "Gina!"

"Hurricane" Gina turned to face Len. One of her elite guards lifted their rifles to shoot him as he approached, but Gina lifted a hand. Len threw the belt to the ground as he came closer, and pulled his pistol and rifle off, throwing them down. "Terrorist whore," he shouted. Gina simply smiled, and pulled the pistol off her belt, handing it to one of her guards. "Baby killer. Call yourself a freedom fighter, you're nothing but a terrorist!" Her knife followed, and now unarmed she lifted her hands in front of her face in a boxing stance, and approached. Len tried to mimic the stance, but found he couldn't clench his right hand into a fist. It must have been broken.

Gina was tall, nearly 6'6" in fact, with a powerful build of lean muscle. Len found himself looking up slightly. There were videos that were floating around the web of Gina taking on captured marines in hand-to-hand, and winning, explicitly stomping every skull, snapping every neck in gory fashion. She was a vicious fighter, toying with her victims; breaking fingers and arms, each one slowly, like a child who pulls the wings off a dragonfly and lets the ants eat it. She loved to take her time. That was what Len was hoping for.

He threw himself at her with a sloppy punch, his right fist clenched as best he could. Gina caught the fist and clenched her hand. If his hand wasn't broken before that, it was the moment her fingers tensed and she squeezed. He tried swinging with his other hand, only for it to be caught. Spreading his arms apart, she lifted a knee into his chest, breaking and cracking the ribs that were already in such bad shape from the abuse he had suffered. She let him fall to his knees, gasping and wheezing, as she crossed her arms.

But then she heard laughter, and looked down to see Len smiling up at her, teeth painted crimson. "Is that the best you can do, you little-"

Her knee lifted into his jaw. He fell back. His face felt like it had broken. He rolled onto all fours, and struggled to lift himself up. He spat a wad of blood onto the ground. His eyes were barely open. It looked like there were three Ginas, all staring at him, all with an angry expression of their face that he was still standing up. Len spat a wad of blood at her feet, and allowed her to punch him again. And again, he stood up to face her.

"Gina!" someone behind her shouted. Gina gritted her teeth and took Len by the throat, attempting to strangle him, when one of her guards took her around the middle and pulled her back. He pointed past Len, to the Pelican dropship that was now speeding over the landscape. Len didn't have to see it to smile, as he stared at Gina defiantly. Even as she pulled the pistol from her guard's belt and buried the muzzle in his gut, he smiled. Even as the bullet tore through his flesh and stomach and intestines, exploding out of his back, he smiled, and fell to the ground.

Above him, the Pelican opened fire, and bullets rained down upon the sands. They weren't concerned for Len, but that was alright. He could feel the bullet shifting and sliding inside his gut, could feel his cool blood spilling onto the warm sands. He watched as Gina and her guard mounted the Warthogs, and the scream of the mounted chain guns began to hiss and roar, spitting out bullets.

Len felt himself rolled onto his back, and looked up to see the ghastly visage of a demon staring down at him. No… just a Spartan. He always hated the EOD helmets. He felt pressure on his stomach as the Spartan attempted to stop the bleeding with one hand, and continued to shoot his assault rifle at the Gina with the other. The Spartan was soon joined by marines, who augmented his position, and a particular Spartan-III that Len wished he didn't see.

The Spartan-II gestured to Lewis-B125, who squatted down and set a health kit on the ground beside him. Pulling out his tools, Lewis-B125 began to work. If Len had the strength, he would have pushed Lewis-B125 away. Gina was right there, with her guards. That was most important. One less terrorist in the universe. That was all that mattered. Not like he would make it, but that was alright. He had managed to help the UNSC to catch her. One less monster in the universe. One less beast.

He closed his eyes, and the sounds of battle and gunshots deafened to nothing, and he entered a deep sleep, the kind of sleep he had longed for, for so many years…


End file.
